


Gunslinger

by garfunkelandgoats



Series: Gunslinger & Related Drabbles [1]
Category: Fargo (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Codependency, Drug Abuse, M/M, Underage Drinking, Unhealthy Relationships, Wrench POV, canon compliant teenage wrenchers, mentions of abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-10
Updated: 2018-04-10
Packaged: 2018-11-30 14:39:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 17,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11465682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/garfunkelandgoats/pseuds/garfunkelandgoats
Summary: "A scorpion asks a frog to carry it across a river. The frog hesitates, afraid of being stung, but the scorpion argues that if it did so, they would both drown. Considering this, the frog agrees, but midway across the river the scorpion does indeed sting the frog, dooming them both. When the frog asks the scorpion why, the scorpion replies that it was in its nature to do so."A western, of sorts.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so I'm currently on vacation @ my grandparents' house without access to a laptop and due to my weirdly ritualistic nature I can't work on There Be Dragons Here without being at home and this idea wouldn't leave me alone so have this thing, hastily written on my iPhone whenever I have free time. Your regularly scheduled fic will return soon.

“Gunslinger”

 

Minot, North Dakota, 1983

 

The sun is red and hot and high in the sky but fading ever further as the intensity of its heat is smothered by the birth of evening. Outside, the growing dusk is punctuated by the occasional _zap!_ as flies collide with the lamp hanging from the porch. The cicadas are screaming themselves hoarse from just out of sight, drowning out the droning of the baseball game playing on the radio in the next room. And between bursts of static on the old, dying television screen Clint Eastwood is being hanged from a tree. 

But Wes Wrench isn’t paying attention to the movie. Not wholly, anyways.

Instead he lets his eyes trace a path over the bridge of his best friend’s nose as Grady pretends to translate--he knows Clint isn’t being hanged for banging anybody’s sheep, but it sure is funny to pretend and the more focused Grady is on making shit up the less likely he is to notice his staring.

There have been countless nights like this, where they meet at one house or another or any of their designated places over town where they won’t be fucked with and just shoot the shit until the early hours of the morning or until somebody passes out.

For years now they’ve spent every minute together, had to since they were both too poor to hang out with the kids from the nicer neighborhoods across the railroad tracks and too deaf and quiet or ornery and Jewish for the other poor kids to want anything to do with them that didn’t involve kicking their asses. And so they gravitated toward each other, an eternity ago, when Wes was stuck in juvie for shoplifting and Grady was thrown in for biting another kid’s ear half off and they both needed somebody to watch their six or else be picked off like the other kids too weak or too small to fight back alone.

And now, at the waning of their senior year, Wes doesn’t know how to tell Grady about the acceptance letter shoved under his mattress.

To call Grady a ‘problem child’ would be generous. He’d come from a real shithole, his deadbeat parents and their junkie friends rotting in the drawing room and he, manic as long as Wes had known him, buzzing with furious nervous energy, drinking and breaking shit and getting into fights he knew he couldn’t win to try and get their attention. But they never noticed. And so he grew from an anxious, ritualistic child into a high-strung, obnoxious, misanthropic teenager with a violent streak and a deep and venomous dislike for anyone who isn’t Wes.

He’s a smart kid--although not as smart as he thinks he is--but seemingly determined to underachieve. Wes isn’t sure who he thinks he’s trying to spite by ruining his life but even if he didn’t have a rep sheet a mile long, even if he hadn’t been nearly expelled twice now, even if he hadn’t been spent his formative years surrounded and molded by the slow decay of addiction, Grady is determined to live fast and hard and die violently before he has time to catch his breath and regret where he’s ended up.

In Grady’s mind they’re Thelma and Louise, riding off the cliff together hand in hand towards their own destruction, but Wes just wants to survive.

He wants to live to be better than his father, to show the old bastard that he didn’t break him, to rise above his circumstances and turn out to be somebody his child self would have been proud to know.

And Grady just wants to smash himself to pieces.

They’ve never talked about it but Wes has seen the way he knocks back a drink as if he were a man dying of thirst, the dead look in his eyes when he’s asked about his plans for the future, the unopened bottle of pills in the box under his bed where he keeps his weed.

It’s fucking terrifying. Because as much as he knows Grady is dragging him down with him, as obvious as it is that he’s headed for destruction, as much as it scares him to think about, Grady has been all he’s had for a long time now. And even if he’s just sticking around because nobody else will have him, that’s more than Wes can say for anyone else in his life.

 _Quit staring, asshole._ Grady’s cheeks are tinged pink but there’s a faint, uncomfortable grin on his face and Wes immediately flushes, embarrassed. Shit. He hadn’t realized.

 _You had something on your face._ It’s a lame excuse and he knows it but he can’t be fucked to come up with something better.

Grady snorts, rolling his eyes, but for a fraction of a second his lips twitch upwards.

The door bursts partway open, gets stuck for a moment, and then Grady’s father barges in. He’s a tall man, thin enough that his wife-beater and boxer shorts hang loose from his narrow frame. Facially, the resemblance is uncanny. Grady fucking hates it.

Wes sits awkwardly, trying to escape the older man’s notice when Grady jumps to his feet and starts yelling.

“Get the fuck out!”

“Don’t you fucking talk to me like that, you goddamn ingrate.”

And then they both go off, a mile a minute, Grady red in the face from screaming himself hoarse, and Wes doesn’t have the patience to try to follow what they’re saying.

They’ve done this song and dance before, many times; Wes knows how it’ll end so he goes ahead and stops the movie just as Grady storms out, then gets up to follow, averting his eyes to the floor so he can pretend not to see how the old man is glaring at him.

He doesn’t need to ask where they’re going, but when they reach the end of the block Grady finally snaps, forgetting to sign in his anger.

“God, he’s such a fucking asshole! You know, we should leave. I wanna leave, Wes--we should seriously fucking just….just run away and never come back to this shithole, man, I dunno about you but I can’t fucking deal with this bullshit anymore.” 

His eyes are wide, brows drawn together, and he’s breathing heavily as he stares at Wes as if he were holding his world in his hands.

 _And do what? Live out of a car?_ Wes rolls his eyes and Grady’s expression darkens.

Every couple months Grady brings up the idea of leaving but they both know they never will.

Wes would be lying if he said the idea of running away with his best friend wasn’t tempting, but that opens up a whole other can of worms that he isn’t prepared to deal with.

He punches Wes in the arm. _Fuck off, I’m serious._

_That’s what you said last time._

Grady says nothing, face scrunching up in annoyance.

_And the time before that._

Wes rolls his eyes when Grady pushes past him, stubborn as ever, and puts a hand on his arm. Grady turns around, glaring daggers.

_I’m not fucking around, W-E-S._

He’s earnest, if nothing else.

_I know._

“Whatever,” he scowls, and stomps away. 

They both know Wes will follow.

He always does.

 

It doesn’t take them long to find their destination; after hopping a fence, it’s just a quick trek through the woods to find the rundown shack outside the cemetery. 

They both know nobody ever uses the damn thing, not since the former groundskeeper was busted with kiddie porn in the early seventies, so ever since they stumbled upon it in eighth grade it’s become a sort of hideaway for them. It’s a shitty old thing, overgrown after years of neglect, its outside covered in mostly lude graffiti. 

But it’s a great place to drink their problems away, of which they have _many_.

Wes sits with his back against the wall of the shed, sipping a bear as Grady crouches behind a headstone, closing one eye as he aims his father’s stolen pistol at a bottle perched atop the headstone opposite.

It shatters like a popping bubble, spraying bits of glass, and Grady grins wide, baring his teeth as he cheers aloud. Wes smiles in spite of himself, watching his friend as he takes a swig.

They’ve lived this night a thousand times but it always feels like the first.

_We could work for T-R-I-P-O-L-I._

Fuck, he’s back on it again.

_We already do._

Grady rolls his eyes, irritated that Wes is playing dumb.

_You know what I mean. Work for him for real._

Ever since that day on the baseball field five years before, when a strange and terrifying man blew into their lives like a hurricane, snatched them up from an assbeating like it was nothing, taught them that the world was bigger and badder than a bunch of highschool assholes, they had found themselves in his debt. 

They’d been desperate for his approval, Grady especially--he still was, actually, strutting his stuff in a thinly veiled attempt to impress, acting tough and talking shit and doing dumb impulsive shit in the hope that Tripoli would commend him for his street smarts--and were eager to repay him any way they could.

In the end that meant delivering packages. They rode their bikes around town for those first few years, dropping things off at trailers and unfamiliar buildings or with a number of shady characters. Both learned quickly not to ask questions. They didn’t need to.

For the last year or so the offer had been open to do more than just deliver packages, but neither had taken it yet. Wes wouldn’t let Grady do it, dug his heels in and refused to budge on the issue because as much as his friend bitched and moaned he always seemed to go along with what Wes wanted in the end.

_That’s a stupid fucking idea and you know it._

_No it’s not!_

_Yes it is._

_You know he’d take us._

_G-R-A-D-Y, he’s a fucking mobster._

Wes frowns stubbornly, staring him down as Grady sits behind the headstone, hugging his knees to his chest.

The breeze feels colder than before as night falls. Wes shudders, hesitating as he signs again.

_Do you have a fucking death wish or something?_

Grady tenses, clenching his teeth, looking like a cornered animal that isn’t sure if it should attack or flee.

“Fuck you, Wes,” he spits, and storms off.

 

They don’t talk for a week after that and then Grady just turns up at the garage while Wes is working on a car as if nothing happened.

He’s looking under the hood when one of his coworkers taps him on the shoulder to get his attention, the sleeves of his tan jumpsuit pushed up to his elbows, oil smeared on his cheek and auburn curls in disarray.

For a moment Grady visibly hesitates, freezing mid-step with his hands in his pockets and his jacket flung over the crook of his arm, the color briefly draining from his face before he plasters on a grin that doesn’t quite meet his eyes and waves too enthusiastically. 

Hell, the fact that he’s waving at all is too over the top to be believable, but he’s always been a shit liar.

Wes waves back tentatively, confused if not surprised by his being here.

He knew he’d come back; Grady always does, sure as anything, but he’s clearly acting fucking weird.

 _What are you doing here?_ Wes wipes his hands on an oil-stained rag, breathing heavily. 

_I need to talk to you, man._ He’s jumpy, shaken up about something even as he tries to hide it with fake cheerfulness, shifting from foot to foot.

_Can’t it wait? I’m kind of busy._

Grady sighs heavily, getting ready to respond, when one of Wes’ coworkers walks by, tapping him on the shoulder. He signs a few key words as he speaks, slow and awkward.

“See you later, man. Don’t forget to close up shop when you’re done.” He claps Wes on the shoulder with a smile before walking away. The gesture is familiar and friendly and it makes Grady’s blood boil.

Grady watches him go, eyes wide, before turning back to Wes with a blank look on his face.

_Who the fuck is that guy?_

_J-I-M. He’s cool. Learned to sign a bit so we talk sometimes._

Wes frowns, leaning against the car as Grady blinks stupidly at him, every pretense at casual friendliness evaporating.

_Looks like a real asshole._

_What the fuck are you talking about? You just met the guy._

_Yeah, and I don’t like him. He looked at me funny._

_He didn’t fucking look at you at all!_ Wes stands, throwing his arms up in exasperation.

_What, are you best fucking friends with J-I-M now? Gonna make some goddamn friendship bracelets? Braid eachother’s hair?_

_What is your fucking problem with him?_ Grady’s face changes color three times as he flares his nostrils in anger, trying to get a hold of himself, then visibly deflates when Wes crosses his arms, glaring.

_Forget it._

Wes sulks, huffing irritably as he taps his foot on the ground before finally giving in.

_What the hell do you want, anyways?_

_Job from T-R-I-P-O-L-I. Need you._ He signs the second part reluctantly, schooling his expression into something neutral. Wes pretends it doesn’t make something in his chest tighten.

 _Can’t you deliver a package yourself anymore? Need me to hold your hand?_ He smirks, trying and failing to lighten the mood.

 _It’s not that kind of job,_ Grady signs, and Wes feels bile rise in his throat. Oh. Fuck.


	2. Chapter Two

Minot, North Dakota, 1983

 

In the soft, orange light streaming from the kitchen window, cut into strips by the shadow from the blinds, Wes can’t help but stare at Grady. Something about that light is softening, washing away his neuroses and the years of near-manic self hatred. He looks almost innocent, like there’s some trace left of that batshit little kid Wes met back in juvie.

No. Fuck. He’s not gonna think like that. That’s dangerous territory, especially in regards to his best friend--his _male_ best friend, no less--and he’s just not gonna fucking do it because that’s not who he is, that’s not who either of them are, and he’s not about to screw up the precarious balancing act their friendship has been these past few years.

Wes bites his lip so hard it nearly draws blood, looking at anything but Grady, and screws his eyes shut, flipping through his mental bank for something, anything, to get his thoughts under control. Dead puppies, dead babies, his fucking mom, his calculus homework, fucking anything. 

Grady punches him on the arm, frowning. _What the fuck are you doing, man?_

He feels heat rise to his cheeks and is momentarily grateful for the low light. _Headache._

 _Right,_ Grady signs, and rolls his eyes as he turns back to the window. His eyes widen.

“Shit!” He hisses through his teeth, immediately dropping to the ground. _He’s right fucking there._

 _What’s he doing?_ Grady peeks through the blinds again, squinting against the light.

_Just watching T-V. Cartoons, I think. F-E-L-I-X the fucking cat._

Wes nods, frowning as he exhales through his nose. When he glances up, Grady is watching him, brow furrowed.

 _What?_ He signs, huffing out a laugh as if this whole situation isn’t absolutely fucking insane.

 _We could go home,_ Wes suggests half-heartedly. He already knows what Grady is going to say, already knows it’s not an option, already knows that there’s no saying no to a man like Tripoli.

 _No, we really couldn’t._ Grady shakes his head, looking offended that he doesn’t want to fucking do this, because he’s an asshole like that. _Come on, man, I can’t do this myself._

Oh, fuck him.

The worst part is that as much as it’s an obvious guilt trip it’s also painfully true. Wes knows that Grady’s likely to do something stupid and reckless and get himself hurt or worse without him there to watch his six, because that’s what he always fucking does when left to his own devices. And this...they’re both in over their heads here. This is fucked up, truly fucked up, the kind of fucked they aren’t ever going to be able to un-fuck, but there’s no way he’s leaving Grady alone to deal with the mess he created.

 _Did I say I was gonna ditch you?_ He sighs heavily, his stomach sinking like a stone, and Grady grins a little in spite of himself.

_Atta boy._

_Fuck off._ He’s grinning too as he punches Grady in the arm, and it’s like they’re kids again, like this whole thing is just some half baked game they came up with when they were bored and not the scariest fucking thing he’s ever done.

But it’s not a game, no matter how they might try to pretend. This whole thing, delivering shit for Tripoli that they don’t ever talk about, never really felt real--logically, he knew it was bad, and so they knew better than to tell anyone, but before tonight he never really felt like a criminal. And now it’s weighing on him, the reality of the situation, and he knows there isn’t any going back from tonight.

It’s never gonna be fun again, he thinks. Not now that they’ve moved past simple delivery, not now that they’ve come too far to pretend that what they’re doing isn’t awful.

 _What’s he doing now?_ Grady peeks through again, then turns to Wes with wide eyes. 

_Fuck, I can’t see him. Must be in another room or something._

_Do you think he saw us?_

_How the fuck should I know?_ Before he can stop him, Grady’s climbed to his feet, crouching as he makes his way to the side door.

“Grady--” Wes hisses through his teeth, trying to get his attention. He doesn’t know if it actually comes out as anything, but the stupid fucker’s ignoring him anyways. _What the fuck are you doing?_

 _What we came here to do. Come on, man._ Wes rolls his eyes, exhaling sharply, and follows. Stubborn asshole.

Grady pushes the unlocked front door open slowly, pulling his pistol from the inside of his jacket.

_Are you nuts? Why would you bring that?_

_Insurance,_ Grady grins, brandishing the thing like it’s a damn toy.

_You’re a fucking idiot, G-R-A-D-Y._

_I’m your idiot._ Wes flushes and grabs his balaclava from the pocket of his hoodie, pulling it over his head. Grady leers at him, smug as ever, before doing the same. It smells like old lady and he can barely see out of the fucking thing but he isn’t exactly looking to end up in a holding cell tonight.

Or worse.

He knows what they have to do, they both do, but it doesn’t feel real yet. It feels like a movie, or a game or something, like they’re just stealing some poor bastard’s booze instead of breaking into his house to fucking kill him. Somehow, they both still think it won’t come to that, but ‘by any means necessary’ is pretty fucking straightforward.

The interior of the house is even shittier than he expected, the walls painted an ugly shade of green, peeling in places to reveal the wood and plaster underneath. There’s a stained, brown shag carpet that sticks under their shoes. From the looks of it, the furniture has been rotting there for years and years, maybe longer than they’ve been alive; most of it is wrapped in plastic tarp, like the couch at Wes’ grandmother’s house, with discarded beer cans scattered across everything. A hideous cuckoo clock looms on the wall, judging them. A shiver runs up Wes’ spine at the sight of it.

“Fucking creepy,” Grady says aloud, his back turned to Wes as he lifts the cover to a playboy magazine sitting on the kitchen counter.

And then the toilet flushes.

He spins around, eyes wide, as the door to the downstairs bathroom opens and a squat, middle aged balding man in a bathrobe steps out. Grady smacks Wes in the arm urgently to get his attention. The man freezes, glancing anxiously between the two intruders.

They stare at each other for a long moment like deer caught in the headlights before Grady goes for his gun and the man dives back into the bathroom, slamming it shut behind him.

“Fuck!” Grady fumbles with the gun, cocking it, as Wes hops over the couch and slams into the door, ramming it with his forearm.

“Go away!” The man whimpers. “Take whatever the fuck you want, just leave me alone!”

“Come on out, man! Fargo sent us!” Grady bites his lip, his hands starting to shake as he points the gun at the door. Fuck. _Fuck._ They’re really fucking doing this. He pulls off the balaclava, dropping it to the ground at his feet. It’s a dumb thing to do and he knows it but they aren’t planning on leaving any witnesses, so.

Wes steps back, breathing heavily, and braces himself against the wall with his hand before following suit.

“Christ, what are you, fucking twelve?” The man laughs incredulously, near hysterical.

“Asshole,” Grady grumbles, gesturing for Wes to try and ram the door down again as he tries to steady his grip on the pistol, his hands clammy.

Wes kicks a hole in the damn thing and his boot gets stuck as the man shoves the door open, landing him on his ass.

“Shit--” Grady steps back, eyes wide, and the gun goes off, leaving a hole in the wall about half a foot to the right of the man’s head.

He charges at Grady faster than a man that old has any right to, knocking him off his feet and pinning him to the ground under his dead weight.

“Stupid fucking kid--!” Spittle’s flying from his lips, face purple with rage, and Grady’s never been more afraid in his goddamn life. He tries to kick him off, screaming himself hoarse, but the man’s too fucking heavy and his hands are on his trying to wrestle the gun from his grip and he’s too young to die no matter how much he thought he wanted to and this was fucking stupid and he wants to tell Wes he’s sorry for dragging him into this and being a shitty friend and thinking about him at night sometimes. 

Somewhere in the next room he can hear Wes screaming his name and he feels like he’s gonna cry and the next thing he knows his finger finds the trigger and _bang_.

The man’s eyes bulge out of his head, round with surprise, as Grady struggles beneath him to catch his breath. Fuck. Oh, fuck. The room’s fucking spinning.

Wes stares, eyes wide with horror, as he scrambles to his feet and joins them in the kitchen, rolling the large man off of Grady.

 _Are you okay?_ He cups Grady’s face in his hands as his best friend in the world stares right through him, eyes dead like a shark, like he’s somewhere far away. He’s pale, looks like a goddamned ghost, and for a horrible moment Wes thinks he got shot in the struggle, thinks he’s going to lose him after all, but there’s a puddle of blood spreading under the dead man on the floor, staining the knees of both their jeans a dark, stinking crimson.

 _Look at me._ He’s pleading, desperate, but Grady only sways on the spot before what little color is left in his face drains abruptly and he pitches to the side, vomiting onto the hardwood floor.

Wes rubs his back in little circles like his own mother used to before she stopped caring. He does not look at the corpse on the floor. Fuck, they killed somebody. The kid he used to go sledding down the driveway with just shot a guy. They’re murderers.

After about a minute, Grady’s retching turns to sobbing and he leans into Wes’ touch, curling under his arm and grasping at the fabric of his hoodie in white-knuckled fists.

“Fuuuuck,” he moans, taking big gulps of breath. His cheeks are wet and so is the front of Wes’ hoodie but neither of them care. Wes kisses the top of his head as he buries his face into his chest.

Grady doesn’t think he’s ever been so warm in his life.

They stay like that a long while, until the blood soaking into their jeans starts to brown and dry. Wes pulls back, forgetting himself as he strokes Grady’s cheek with his thumb, before taking a deep breath. _We were never here._

Grady nods, gritting his teeth. _We’re not going down for this fucking guy._ He feels like he might be sick again, but there’s nothing left in his stomach to throw up.

_Go find some of his clothes upstairs. I’m gonna look for something to clean up the blood._

He’d forgotten he was covered in blood. They both are. God fucking damn it. 

While Grady staggers upstairs, Wes pulls himself to his feet, his legs wobbly. He runs a hand through his hair, letting out a heavy sigh, before stepping over the body on his way to the bathroom. In the cabinet under the sink he finds what he needs, gathering the supplies together in his arms and hugging them close to his chest as he takes a breath, staring at his reflection in the mirror.

There are dark circles under his eyes, another man’s blood smeared across his face. He looks like he’s seen a ghost. Maybe he has. He doesn’t recognize himself.

When he comes out of the bathroom, Grady is stripping, already half naked, in the kitchen. He’s slowly peeling off his blood-soaked jeans, grimacing as he does so. Wes blinks, mentally chastising himself, and looks away.

_I don’t think these are gonna fit._

_At least they’re clean._ Wes shrugs, setting down the cleaning supplies on the counter, and pulls his hoodie over his head. Grady turns his back to him, cheeks burning with embarrassment, and struggles to change into the older man’s clothes.

They’re both too baggy and too short, especially on Wes, and they both look fucking ridiculous but there aren’t any other options so it’ll have to do.

It takes nearly two hours to scrub down everything they touched, and at the end of it they’re both sore and exhausted but Wes keeps nagging Grady to be thorough, they can’t afford to make a mistake here. When it’s all said and done they wrap up the body in a rug and stuff him in the trunk.

Wes drives for hours, out to the middle of nowhere, until the darkness of the night sky begins to evaporate into a faint orange and purple. As the sun rises they carry the body deep into the woods and dump it in a lake, weighed down by stones.

They don’t make it back home until early morning, sneaking in through Wes’ bedroom window and passing out in the dead man’s clothes, clinging to each other as if reaching for a lifeline.

When they skip school that day and instead meet with Tripoli, the large, quiet man nods at Wes with something that looks vaguely like approval. He doesn’t look at Grady at all. On the drive back to town Grady sulks the whole damn way.

Wes was right. It never is the same again.


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yikes i'm really not a fan of this chapter but i kind of just had to get it out sooo

Minot, North Dakota, 1983

 

Wes chews absentmindedly at the pink rubber eraser of his pencil and pretends he doesn’t feel Grady’s eyes on him. He scratches the back of his neck with his free hand, feeling the little hairs there standing up, and wills himself not to flush. 

At the front of the classroom the teacher is prattling on about something or another but he can’t bring himself to follow along in his notes or try to read her lips. Every time he spaces out enough for his vision to lose focus, the mental image of the man Grady killed lying crumpled on the lake shore, wrapped in his own ugly rug, forces itself into his mind. In the weeks since it happened there’s been no word from Tripoli, life has gone on as if it never happened, but he’s barely slept at all. 

He keeps having nightmares where the man turns the gun on Grady and he has to hold his best and only friend in his arms while he slowly goes cold. It’s horrifying, and he can barely look at Grady without imagining his eyes closing for the last time, and so they’re at a stalemate, both too proud to be the first one to break the silence and acknowledge that he almost fucking died.

His eyes are burning with exhaustion and his head weighs a ton and it’s all he can to to keep from falling asleep right then and there.

The classroom door opens and a short, heavyset woman with meticulously curled hair steps in the doorway, beckoning the teacher over. They step out into the hall to talk in private. Wes feels a tap on his shoulder as Grady leans over his desk to get his attention.

_Twenty bucks says somebody died._

Wes’ lips quirk upward. _You’re sick, man. Make it thirty._

Grady grins at him, tapping him again and pointing to the front as the teacher comes back in. 

She’s chipper, friendly even, as the short woman gestures to somebody outside the doorway. New student, from the looks of it.

“Damn,” Grady mutters under his breath, leaning back in his seat with an exaggerated scowl that keeps trying to become a grin when Wes shoots him a smug look over his shoulder.

If they keep it light like this, don’t talk about the job or what happened or the fact that they woke up tangled together in a dead man’s clothes, they can almost pretend that it didn’t happen. It feels almost easy. In his mind’s eye, the man is tackling Grady to the floor again. He blinks, shaking his head minutely, and looks to the front of the classroom as the new girl walks in.

She’s blonde, decently pretty but nothing special, and Wes’ eyes almost skip over her before he sees her sign something, the heavier woman translating for the hearing class.

 _It’s nice to meet you all,_ she signs, smiling in a way that shows off her dimples, and Wes’ eyes widen.

The teacher is looking right at him as she continues talking, enunciating slowly. He doesn’t catch it but he can guess, sinking lower into his seat. She wants him to show the girl around. Because apparently the token deaf kid needs a friend who isn’t...well...Grady. Whatever. 

Wes doesn’t need to look to know that Grady’s seething, can feel the annoyance coming off him in waves. He’s always been like this, weirdly possessive of Wes, like a kid who doesn’t want to share his favorite toy. It’s irritating but ultimately Wes knows that it’s not like he has so many other people trying to befriend him anyways.

And he’s seen Grady’s parents, how they care about the damn needle more than their only son, how he tries so hard to piss them off even though they don’t give a shit and never have, never will. If Grady had died on that stranger’s kitchen floor, Wes would have been the only one to mourn him.

So he gets it.

Neither of them have ever had anything, anyone but each other. It’s just that he’s alone because nobody in his life cares to try, and Grady, well. He’s alone because he’s _difficult_. And that’s something that can’t be remedied by a change of scenery.

Wes doesn’t care if Grady latches on tight and drags him down with him. He’s all he’s got in the world, even if he is a dumb asshole, even if the prospect of telling him that he got accepted to Notre Dame is fucking terrifying. The letter’s been stuffed under his mattress for over a month now, but time is ticking and he knows he’ll have to tell him eventually. 

He smiles awkwardly, waiting for the rest of the class to go back to ignoring him, and raises a hand off his desk in a placating gesture.

And then the girl turns to see him and her eyes light up and _oh_.

She waves at him as she makes her way to her seat and he waves back, slow and hesitant, and behind him Grady is glaring daggers. Wes puts his head down and tries to sleep, knowing that nobody will try and wake him.

He sees the cuckoo clock on the wall. The dead, flat look in Grady’s eyes after it happened, like he didn’t even know he was there. The ever-growing pool of blood.

He sees Grady curling in on himself on the ground, clutching at a gunshot wound in his abdomen, sees the man standing up, sees his best friend’s brains splattered across the hardwood floor.

Wes jolts awake, as if he were falling and then suddenly stopped, as people are getting up to leave. He slowly sits up, looking around as his breathing steadies, and runs a hand through his hair. When he turns to look behind him, Grady’s already gone, probably off to go sulk in the smoking area outside. 

He gets to his feet, putting his notebook away, and slings his backpack over one shoulder. There’s a tap on his arm and he turns to see the new girl.

 _They said you were deaf, too._ She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and he notices the hearing aids.

Wes nods, blinking stupidly, then remembers himself. _I’m supposed to show you around, right?_

She hands him her schedule, smiling sheepishly, and his stomach flip-flops. _I’m A-M-Y._

 _W-E-S._ He looks down at the schedule, trying not to smile. _We’ve got the same lunch._

_Oh, cool._

He’s about to invite her to come sit with him and Grady when she taps his arm, pointing towards the door. Grady is sulking in the doorway, arms crossed and expression blank. Wes tries not to think about the last time he looked like that.

 _What, dude?_

Grady raises his eyebrows, frowning even harder than before, and Wes sighs exasperatedly. He’d fight him on it but she’d actually understand them.

_You can sit with us later. At lunch, I mean. If you want._

_You sure your friend’s okay with that?_

_He’ll get over it._

Out of the corner of his eye he sees Grady roll his eyes, cupping his hands around his mouth before shouting his name as deadpan as humanly possible. “WES!”

He glares back, waving a hand dismissively, before saying his goodbyes to Amy. _Will you come?_

 _Sure,_ she smiles, and he can’t help but grin. Fuck, she’s cute. He turns back to Grady, following him out before she can notice that he’s blushing. 

As they head to class Grady is visibly fuming, hands shoved in his pockets as he walks a little bit ahead. Wes sighs heavily and grabs his elbow. 

_What?_ Grady signs, his teeth clenched.

_What the fuck is your problem, man?_

_I don’t have a fucking problem._ He jerks his arm away, face reddening, and stalks off.

Wes rolls his eyes. “Grady!”

No response. Grady just walks away. Asshole.

He feels someone tap him on the shoulder and turns to see Amy wave to him as she walks by. The halls start clearing out and he kneads the bridge of his nose between two fingers before slowly walking to class.

Wes sleeps through his next class. It’s the same scene, again and again, and each time he feels more powerless. Each time he can only watch as Grady fights for his life on the floor. Sometimes it goes like it did in real life. Other times he dies in that goddamned kitchen, and he never can tell which it’ll be until it happens. Until the gun goes off, and he has to relive that sickening moment when he wasn't sure which side of it Grady was on. 

He almost lost the person he cares for most in the world. 

He almost had to see Grady die.

All because he got stuck in the fucking door.

Wes doesn’t know what he’d do if it had gone that way, if the seat behind him in math class had been empty today, if he had to face the world alone.

Most of all he doesn’t know how he can ever tell Grady any of this, if he even should.

He feels tremendously lucky, like they just won at Russian roulette, but at the same time he knows that the more they test their luck the more likely it is that it will run out. All he can do is hope that when that day comes he’ll be fast enough to keep Grady safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for some reason it keeps showing up as only being 2 chapters?????


	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gonna be honest, I have no excuse for how short this chapter is, I've totally run out of steam lately and it was hard even getting this much out and everything I've put out lately has been shit. I don't know what my problem is but I'll try to have more out soon, hopefully better written too. Thanks for being patient

Minot, North Dakota, 1983  
Two days later

 

Grady puts one foot in front of the other, arms at his sides to help him balance as the walks along the edge of the railroad track. A few feet behind him, Wes watches, hands shoved in the pockets of his threadbare jacket. He huffs out a laugh when Grady almost stumbles and looks up at the cloudless, grey sky as a flock of birds in V-formation fly by overhead, heading back up North now that winter is over. 

If he squints he can still see some trace of his breath on the air, a faint outline, a whisper, like smoke from one of Grady’s cigarettes--he doesn’t smoke, not really, just tries to hold the smoke in his mouth from time to time to look cool. Says smoking gives him a headache, but the stubborn idiot still carries them anyways. Coughs himself silly when he tries to light one up. Wes tried it once and didn’t much care for it, but Grady’s got something to prove, so.

Wes watches his best friend’s back as he teeters back and forth, moving slowly and carefully, wobbling from time to time. He feels his lips curl upward, fond. It’s almost like then they were kids, how they used to wander around like this, not saying anything, because even before Grady learned to sign their shared silence was better than getting yelled at or beaten up by the other kids. 

He never did ask Grady why he decided to learn. He supposes he doesn’t need to; Grady did it for the same reason he does anything--he wants to be noticed, wants someone to give a shit. And Wes knows he’s the only one in his friend’s life who ever has; everyone knew about his shitty homelife, but teachers could only be concerned for so long before his behavior turned them off. 

Let him rot, they seemed to think in the end, just as any other kid who’d tried to reach out to him over the years had.

Wes knows Grady is damaged goods, has been longer than he’s known him. But if he’s being honest, the same could be said for himself, only difference being that nobody but Grady’s cared enough to make the effort to talk to him in the first place.

Well, not _quite_.

In his mind’s eye he sees Amy smiling at him, the way her eyes crinkled at the edges, her--

Grady waves a hand in front of his face, tearing him from his thoughts. _Anybody home?_

Wes smacks his hand away, cheeks burning. _Fuck off, man._

A grin plays at Grady’s lips but it doesn’t meet his eyes. _You thinking about that girl?_

His eyes are hard and flat and a shiver goes down Wes’ spine. There’s a darkness there, one he’s always seen, but not directed towards him. Not like this.

_None of your fucking business._

_Ew, do you like her?_ Grady laughs, grateful that Wes can’t hear how bitter it sounds.

Wes shoves his arm, frowning. _Asshole._ He pushes past Grady, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“Come on, man,” Grady says to Wes’ retreating back before following. He grabs Wes by the crook of his arm, turning him around. _Don’t be like that._

_I’m not being like anything. You’re the one being a dick._

_I’m sorry, okay?_

Wes stares at him, expression blank. _No, you’re not._

_Fuck you, of course I am._

He shakes his head, jaw clenched, and signs choppily, his face flushed red. Grady takes a step back, glowering.

_No you’re not! You always fucking do this._

_Do what?_

_You know exactly what I mean, asshole._

Grady crosses his arms, raising an eyebrow. _Maybe I don’t fucking know what you mean. Enlighten me, W-E-S. What horrible thing am I doing this time?_

Wes’ hands clench into fists at his sides. A part of him desperately wants to sock Grady in the mouth, wipe that stupid fucking look of his face, teach him a lesson he won’t forget. 

He exhales sharply through his nose, trying to get control over his anger before he does something he’ll regret.

In his mind, he imagines his father, remembers the way he used to hit him when he cried too loud. Remembers hiding out in his room when he’d come home, drunk and surly and looking for a fight, until he was fourteen and his father went out to the bar one night and never came home again.

_Fuck you, I don’t need this shit, man._

He starts to walk away and Grady grabs his arm again, which he roughly pulls away. 

“Get the fuck off me!” They glare daggers at each other for a long moment before Wes turns and walks away. 

This time, Grady doesn’t stop him.

A part of Wes wishes he had.


	5. Chapter Five

Minot, North Dakota, 1983

 

Wes pokes at the small pile of green beans on his plate with a fork, moving them around and periodically spearing them but not actually bringing them to his mouth. He feels stuffy--it’s the polo, he thinks, it doesn’t quite fit him right since he grabbed it off a donation bin--like he’s some dirty thing Amy tracked in on her shoe, not worthy of being in a nice house with her nice family. It’s not even that she has money, her parents aren’t especially wealthy, but compared to where he’s from, well…

Grady would hate this place, he thinks, the bitter little shit. Feels a bang of fond regret, which is then swallowed up by indignation. No, fuck him. He’s an asshole. Even if he’s been all he has for their whole damn lives, even if he was beyond miserable before he met him, he’s not about to go crawling back when Grady doesn’t even have the decency to be sorry for being a prick.

And it’s fine. Because he doesn’t need him--Grady may have been his only friend in the past, but Amy clearly likes him, so maybe he doesn’t have to be.

Still though, this house, these people, these clothes...he feels out of place. 

His cheeks burn with embarrassment when he glances around to see that Amy and her parents are only about halfway through their steaks, whereas his is gone. He wolfed the thing down without thinking, the all-too-familiar pang of hunger drowning out his desire to make a good impression. 

Amy puts a hand on his and he freezes, eyes darting to her as she smiles and points to her father. Wes looks to the man in question, a relatively handsome middle-aged dentist with thick frames and grey hairs peppered at his temples. He’d been avoiding talking to him for the past hour; every time he looks at him he feels even more like he doesn’t belong here; people like him don’t live in places like this, they don’t have nice fathers and smiling mothers who work decent jobs instead of drinking themselves into oblivion. 

He looks at him and he sees everything he wishes his own father had been. Sees what he could have had, if he’d been lucky enough to be born to a better family. 

It’s a long way from what he’s used to; his own family dinners, back when his father was still around to have them and he didn’t have to heat up something for himself while his mother passes out in a puddle of her own vomit, were a minefield more than anything else. He’d learned to eat quick, eyes on his food, because once something set his father off there wouldn’t be any finishing it.

As far as he knows, Grady never even had that. His parents were nonentities his whole life, just falling asleep with their TV dinners perched on their laps every night until he stopped coming home for dinner altogether. Now he thinks about it, Wes isn’t sure that Grady even eats dinner anymore, with how skinny he’s been. 

He himself had been chubby when he was little; eating and reading had been his only two pleasures in life until his father beat it out of him, started restricting his meals. He’d been almost as skinny as Grady for a few years before tenth grade when he started lifting weights. For a moment Wes remembers the reason why he started, the image of Grady’s swollen face flashing behind his eyes before he can stop it. His jaw clenches involuntarily as he forces a smile for Amy’s father.

_So, W-E-S, what are your plans after graduation?_ Something in his chest tightens, both at the question itself and the fact that her parents actually took the time to learn sign language for her. His sure as shit didn’t, never cared to--his father had refused to let him learn until his kindergarten teacher forced the issue, thought it would make him soft, thought he should just learn to read lips and speak and make due. Wes’ fingers tighten around the fork at the memory.

_I’m not sure yet, right now I’m just working at the garage._ Wes sighs sheepishly, pointedly not thinking of the acceptance letter stuffed under his mattress. He still isn’t sure what to do about that. It doesn’t feel real; he’d applied on a whim after one of his teachers encouraged him to, figured it wasn’t like he had anything to lose in the first place. It’s a great opportunity, sure, but the thing is that he isn’t used to having options. Hadn’t ever really thought that far ahead, just assumed he and Grady would just keep doing what they’re doing until one of them died.

_You must have some idea._

He chuckles soundlessly, eyes cast to his plate as he feels the tips of his ears burn red. Fuck it.

_I got accepted to N-O-T-R-E D-A-M-E, actually._

The older man’s eyebrows shoot up and he nods, impressed. 

_What’s your major?_

Wes places down his fork, raising his hands to reply before freezing for a second, thinking. He hadn’t thought about it, hadn’t considered the possibility of having a real future beyond a passing fantasy.

_E-N-G-I-N-E-E-R-I-N-G,_ he responds. It’s an answer, anyways. Not entirely bullshit, either. He could see himself trying to go for that if he did end up going to school there.

Amy’s father looks to her approvingly, raising his eyebrows. Her cheeks redden, which makes something in Wes’ chest lurch. He pretends his didn’t see it, suddenly fascinated by his uneaten green beans as he resumes poking at them.

He isn’t sure how he feels about this whole thing. About Amy. He likes her, sure, but well…

They’re from two different worlds and he feels like they couldn’t possibly understand each other despite their shared deafness.

It’s not like anyone knows him especially well, anyone but Grady anyways, but he doesn’t know how to pretend to be the kind of guy Amy would date and he isn’t sure he wants to try. 

The rest of the night passes slowly, making awkward conversation with her parents that eventually becomes more casual. They joke and have a decent enough time but even still Wes feels exposed, like they’ve put him on display as some sort of oddity they can gawk at. He’s walking on eggshells the whole night, trying to keep himself from putting his foot in his mouth and saying something stupid that will make them decide he’s not worthy of associating with their daughter.

Amy pecks him on the cheek at the door when he leaves. It makes something in him flutter, but more than anything he’s embarrassed, feels unclean, wants to scrub his face raw to get the trace off.

It’s a chilly night, more so than one would expect at this time of the year, and he shivers, wishing he’d thought to bring his jacket. Figured it was too ratty, too ugly, too obviously a poor kid’s jacket to risk bringing, but the the polo isn’t exactly doing him any favors.

Wes makes the long trek back to his neighborhood, crossing the railroad tracks where he’d had his fight with Grady. He doesn’t like fighting with him, misses that asshole more than he’d like to admit, but it always seems to happen. Wasn’t always like that. They used to be thick as thieves, always in sync, since nobody else would have them. But as the rest of their lives looms closer and closer, just around the corner now, he can feel Grady digging his claws into him as he gets swept up in Tripoli’s darkness. 

He isn’t sure that he wants to follow him down anymore, is the thing.

It’s still light out, the screams of the cicadas falling on deaf ears as he cuts through the woods to get home, feeling a shiver go up his spine. Wes knows he’s being paranoid but he can’t help but feel like he’s being watched.

Out of the corner of his eye he sees movement in the bushes and as he turns his head a wolf emerges, watching him from the darkness.

He freezes, mind racing as he tries to remember whether or not you’re supposed to run from a wolf. Don’t they catch up? Aren’t you better off just holding still and waiting for them to leave? Playing dead? Or, shit, is that bears?

Furthermore, he has no fucking clue why a wolf is there in the first place.

Wes wants to run but his feet feel as if they were affixed to the spot. The wolf stares at him blankly, as if sizing him up, before slowly backing away into the foliage from whence it came.

He stares after it for a long moment, his breath freezing on the night air, before turning and walking away.

After a few more minutes of walking he makes it home safely, closing the door slowly behind him. He needn’t bother. His mother is already passed out at the kitchen table, her head in her arms, drool staining the wood.

Wes sighs and pulls off his boots before making his way into the kitchen. He tosses out her empty bottle and grabs a blanket off the back of the couch before draping it over her shoulders.

“Night, Mom,” he mutters, knowing she probably wouldn’t understand him even if she was awake to hear it. He trudges upstairs, leaning heavily on the railing, and opens the door to his room.

His eyes widen and he halts in his tracks.

_What the fuck are you doing here?_

Grady runs a hand through his hair, biting his lip anxiously. _I need to talk to you, man._

He looks a mess. There are dark circles under his puffy, red eyes as dark as bruises, his hair’s sticking up all over, and all in all he looks like he hasn’t slept in days, wearing a washed out, stained hoodie and jeans.

Wes barely notices the red marks on his neck but once he does he’s fucking livid.

_Who did that to you?_

He freezes, mouth opening and closing like a dying fish. _Nobody,_ he says. He’s always been a shitty liar.

_G-R-A-D-Y, who the fuck did that to you?_

Grady throws his hands up in exasperation, a wild glint in his eye like that of a cornered animal. He looks like he wants to bolt, or punch Wes, but he’s not about to just let him leave because _fuck that_.

“None of your goddamn business, man, okay? Christ, I don’t know why I even came.” He hisses through clenched teeth, hands shaking too violently to sign properly.

Wes breathes heavily, watching him with a look of pity that he knows Grady has to resent, before closing the distance between them and pulling his best friend into a tight hug. Grady’s arms hover awkwardly around him before he hesitantly returns it, relaxing into Wes’ embrace a moment later.

They stay like that a long while, Wes burying his nose in Grady’s hair as he feels a wetness on the front of his shirt.

Finally, Grady pulls back, stepping away even as his fingers brush against Wes’ arm. His eyes are shiny and wet as he rubs them with the side of his hand before his lips curl up in a small grin. 

_Dude, what’s with the P-O-L-O? You look like a Y-U-P-P-I-E._

Wes rolls his eyes, chuckling noiselessly. _Got all dressed up for you, of course._ He winks lecherously, a shit-eating grin finding its way onto his face.

Grady laughs, but it doesn’t quite meet his eyes. He watches Wes for a moment, expression almost wistful, before he remembers himself and clears his throat, taking another step back. Wes feels colder for it already, misses him even though he’s right there.

_Can I crash here tonight?_ he asks reluctantly, almost sheepish. It’s totally unlike him and Wes frowns, concerned. _I can’t go home._

_Why not?_

He exhales sharply, annoyed at being questioned.

_I just fucking can’t, okay, W-E-S? I can’t go back to that fucking place._

Wes nods, chewing the inside of his mouth in an effort to keep his anger under control. He can’t stop staring at the marks. He wants to beat the shit out of whoever did that to him. Wants to make them hurt.

_Of course._

Grady visibly relaxes, his shoulders dropping as if they weighed a ton. Wes is struck with the urge to hug him again but he doubts Grady would appreciate it.

They change into pajamas (or Wes does, anyways; Grady just tosses the jeans onto the floor and sleeps in his hoodie and boxers) with their backs turned to each other, and go straight to bed. Grady sleeps as far to one side as he can, practically hanging off the edge, for about an hour before he turns over and taps Wes on the shoulder.

Wes turns over, blinking his eyes groggily, before Grady hesitantly signs, avoiding eye contact.

_W-E-S, do you think we’re bad people?_

Yes.

He is, anyways.

_What do you mean?_

_We fucking killed somebody, man._

Wes shrugs, too tired to have this conversation right now. Or ever, for that matter.

_I don’t think we are. He was gonna kill you._

Grady nods, frowning. _I keep feeling like I still have his blood on me. No matter how hard I try to get it off, it’s still there._

_You’re not a bad person, Grady. Now go to sleep._ He rolls over so his back is facing him and Grady stares up at the ceiling.

“Liar,” he says to nobody, and rolls back onto his side, hugging the pillow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a very soft chapter. I feel a lot better about it than I do the last one. Also, gotta love wolf symbolism ayyyo :)


	6. Chapter Six

Minot, North Dakota, 1983

 

The sun is high in the sky, streaming bright through the blinds of one window and the threadbare old T-shirt nailed to the windowpane of the other. Outside, birds are singing and the air is buzzing with the sound of insects, practically vibrating with it as if it were static on the TV. 

Ultimately, that is what wakes Grady.

His eyes flutter open and squint against the light as he blinks groggily, the events of last night coming rushing back. Grady slings an arm out and it collides with the solid expanse of Wes’ chest, which is when he realizes that his best friend is curled around him, hugging him to his chest as if he were a teddy bear. His cheeks burn as he tries to wriggle out without waking him. 

“God damn it, Wes…” He hisses through clenched teeth when Wes only pulls him closer, letting out a needy whimper in his sleep. “You fucking softie.”

Finally he manages to pull himself out of Wes’ grasp and nudges a pillow towards his sleeping friend. Wes immediately hugs the pillow instead and Grady’s expression softens as he stares down at him. He can’t help but look at the way Wes’ curls stick up. It’s cute.

No, it’s not.

(Yes it is.)

“Ah, fuck,” says Grady as he rubs at his eyes with the sleeve of his hoodie. In doing so he accidentally brushes against the bruises on his neck and flinches, hissing painfully through his teeth. “ _Fuuuuuck._ ”

He swallows, wincing at the throbbing pain in his throat, and makes his way carefully across the hall to the bathroom, trying to be as quiet as possible in case Wes’ mother is awake. (He doubts it. She rarely wakes up before noon, especially on a Monday. Would probably be too hungover to care that he was there anyways.)

Grady closes the door behind him and turns to the mirror, examining himself, and gingerly pokes at the bruise, stifling a whimper by biting his hand.

They’re still just as red and angry as they were last night, but the bruises aren’t the worst part. No, that would be the dark purple marks from where that sick son of a bitch--

He turns around immediately, bracing against the sink as bile rises in his throat.

“Fuck,” he chokes out, feeling tears starting to well up in his eyes. 

This is so fucked up. He doesn’t know what to tell Wes, if he even could tell Wes--this shitshow isn’t the kind of thing you talk about, not even to your best friend. 

Maybe the bottle, if he had the stomach for it. Hates the taste of alcohol, always has; he’ll drink a beer with Wes just ‘cause it’s _Wes_ but he isn’t sure that he has the constitution for alcoholism.

Grady furiously rubs at his eyes until they burn, raw to the touch, and hopes that maybe Wes won’t notice. He splashes cold water in his face, resisting the urge to scream into the towel he uses to dry himself, and closes the bathroom door behind him.

He hears a loud creaking noise coming from the stairs and sees Wes’ mother staring blankly at him like a deer caught in headlights. She’s a short, sturdy woman--short enough that he wonders how the hell _Wes_ turned out so goddamn lanky--the sort who must have been pretty once, or would have been anyways had life been kinder to her. 

She has the same curly red hair, although hers has been greying before her time. Grady raises a hand hesitantly in greeting, not knowing what to expect since he’s not used to seeing her conscious before three, but she only grunts to acknowledge his presence, waving a hand dismissively as she waddles downstairs, leaning heavily on the railing.

Okay, then.

Raising his eyebrows as he lets out a short sigh of relief, Grady heads back to the bedroom, to find Wes still asleep where he left him, having knocked the pillow he was cradling onto the ground in favor of sprawling across the tangled sheets like a cat sunning itself.

Grady stares, expression blank as he makes his way to where his dirty jeans are balled up on the floor and pulls them on, shaking his head. He chuckles softly, terribly fond in spite of himself, as he pointedly avoids looking because the sight of Wes like _that_ is making him think stupid, awful, embarrassing things.

He grabs a discarded sock from the floor and tosses it at Wes, who doesn’t stir, only rolls over onto his stomach with a low groan, his arm dangling off the edge of the bed.

Grady rolls his eyes, grabbing the fallen pillow from where Wes knocked it over, and tosses it at his back. Still nothing.

“You lanky sonuvabitch. I hate you.” 

He exhales sharply, climbing onto the end of the bed and grimacing at the ache of his knees as they sink into an especially uncomfortable part. Grady leans forward so he’s over Wes and feels his cheeks redden. Fuck. No. _Shut up._ He squeezes his eyes shut for a second, shaking his head minutely as if by doing so he could knock those thoughts out of his head, and gently shakes Wes’ shoulder.

“Come on, man, get up already.”

Wes has always been a heavy sleeper--the fact that he doesn’t have every insignificant noise waking him up probably helps--so Grady’s done this whole song and dance before of trying to get him up on the nights when they fell asleep together like this.

Which, that’s normal, right? He’s pretty sure that’s a normal thing for two guys who are buddies to do.

It’s not like he has any real frame of reference, though, since Wes is the only friend he’s ever had. Shit, he is, isn’t he?

Either way. Whatever. It’s normal.

Grady snaps his fingers in front of Wes’ face a couple times even though he knows it isn’t going to work for obvious reasons. 

He sighs as he sits back, exasperated despite not having made much of a genuine effort to wake him, and glances around the room, then back at Wes.

Fuck it.

“I love you,” he says aloud to no one, just to see how it feels rolling off his tongue. He’s never had occasion to say it to anyone and doesn’t expect that to change, doesn’t even know _why_ he feels the need to say it just then, but when he does his voice is softer, quieter, more resigned than before. 

“Fuck.” Grady kneads the bridge of his nose between two fingers. “I don’t know why I fuckin’ said that. God damn it.” 

He feels Wes tap him on the arm and jerks back as if burned, eyes wide as his best friend smiles at him lazily and wipes the sleep from his eyes.

_What time is it?_

Grady glances at the clock on the dresser. _Seven thirty._

“Shit,” Wes groans, and buries his face in the pillow, stretching.

Grady looks away, standing up abruptly and making his way to the other end of the room where his shoes are laying in a heap, sitting on the ground as he pulls them on.

“Get a hold of yourself,” he grumbles under his breath, and tightens the hoodie around his throat in the hopes that no one will notice.


	7. Chapter Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long to write & is really short and kind of shitty, I don't know why but every time I've sat down to try and work on this chapter it's been like pulling fingernails. Hopefully I'll be able to update it more regularly now that this one's out of the way?

Minot, North Dakota, 1983

 

Wes leans under the hood of a car, resisting the urge to rub at his eyes--he’s covered in dirt and isn’t much looking to go blind. He chews the inside of his mouth as he sets to work. It’s exhausting, especially in this heat now that the end of the school year is drawing closer, and by the end of the day he knows his back will be aching as if the entire spinal cord had turned to stone but something about the labor of it is satisfying in a way nothing else in his life really is. 

He likes it. A lot, actually. More than he’d originally thought he would when he took the job--not that he’d had much choice at the time; money had been too tight to pay the water bills but _just_ loose enough for his mother to keep the fridge thoroughly stocked with liquor.

But the boss has been good to him and so has Jim; they’ve gone out of their way to learn at least some basic ASL for him, which is more effort than most people in his life have ever bothered to expend on his behalf. 

He grabs a wrench from his toolbox and tightens his grip around it, appreciating the way it fits in his hand as he continues working.

Wes stands up straight, setting down his tools as he grabs a water bottle and takes a long drink, sweating profusely. As he does it he sees a black car with tinted windows pull up outside the garage and freezes, lowering the bottle.

Shit. Oh, shit.

He knows that car all too well.

Knows it can’t mean anything good.

He turns to Jim, signing quickly. _Take a cigarette break._

Jim frowns, confused. _Why?_

_Just do it, man, please._

Too late.

Tripoli is already out of the car, flanked by two big, mean looking fellas Wes hasn’t seen before as he makes his way to the back office, glancing momentarily at Wes with an unreadable look.

Grady trails a few feet behind, looking visibly uncomfortable.

Wes crosses the garage in a second, looming over his friend. 

_What the fuck is T-R-I-P-O-L-I doing here?_

Grady flinches as if struck, shifting from foot to foot. _I dunno, man._

_Don’t fucking lie to me, asshole._

His face reddens as he opens and closes his mouth as if to respond, before letting out a resigned sigh. _He’s going to talk to your boss._

Shit. Shitshitshit.

Wes clenches his jaw, eyes wide. _What did you do?_

“I didn’t--” Grady takes a step back, indignant. _I didn’t do a goddamn thing. Fuck you for even saying that._

_I don’t believe you._

“Of course you fucking don’t,” Grady mutters, running a hand through his hair. _He stopped me on my way home, okay? I didn’t ask to be here._

The door to the back office opens again and Tripoli and his entourage walk out, not even looking at Wes. His boss follows soon after, wiping sweat from his brow. He’s an older gentleman, short and round around the middle, his hair reduced to mere wisps over the time Wes has worked for him. Wes knows what’s coming. There’s only one reason Tripoli would come to his work like this, and with the way his boss is anxiously wringing his hands, unable to look him in the eyes, he knows he’s out of a job.

 _It’s fine, B-O-B, really._ He’s already packing up his stuff as he signs it, his blood boiling. Grady hovers awkwardly in the background and Wes can feel his eyes on him and all it does is make him angrier.

_I’m so sorry, son._

_It’s not your fault._

The old man glances at Grady and at the idling black car outside the garage and shifts, visibly uncomfortable.

_W-E-S, you aren’t in any trouble, are you?_

Grady is definitely watching him now. Fucking asshole.

Wes forces a smile and waves off Bob’s concerns, but he knows he doesn’t believe him from the wary look in his eyes as they shake hands and go their separate ways. Jim glares at him as he turns to join Grady, no doubt realizing what Wes has brought to their doorstep.

He starts walking away and Grady grabs his arm.

_Where the hell are you going?_

_Home._

_Come on, dude, you know T-R-I-P-O-L-I’s gonna wanna talk to you._

Wes flips him off and turns to leave. The car drives up alongside him and the back window rolls down.

“Get in,” says Tripoli, and a shiver goes up Wes’ spine. He does as he’s told, stooping so as not to knock his head, and Grady sits beside him, looking like he wants to bolt. Tripoli stares at him, his expression unreadable, and Wes is struck with the sense that he’s sizing him up. It makes him deeply uncomfortable, like he could squirm out of his skin. He chews the inside of his mouth, glancing at the locked door with a sense of longing.

He’s torn from his thoughts when out of the corner of his eye he catches Tripoli speaking.

“Job for you. Tomorrow.”

Grady turns to relay the message to Wes, who waves him off in favor of glaring at Tripoli while he watches him talk. He’s easy enough to understand, speaks more briefly and clearly than most.

Tripoli nods briefly to one of his goons, who produces a photograph from a file and hands it to Wes. Grady leans close to look over his shoulder. The man in the photo is fairly average looking, save for a busted-up nose and a scar running white down the side of his face, like he was clawed by a mountain lion or something. Wes briefly remembers reading something about mountain lions in one of his father’s old Eagle Scout books, years ago.

“Shake him down,” Tripoli says, then glowers at Grady, practically sticking his finger in his face. “ _Don’t_ kill him.”

Grady nods, scratching sheepishly at the back of his neck. The color is slightly drained from his face and Wes almost feels sorry for him.

“Instructions are on the back of the photo. Memorize them. Memorize his face. Then burn it.”

Wes nods grimly, stowing the picture in his pocket. Tripoli stares at him a long moment, expression completely unreadable, before elbowing the man sitting next to him, who then leans over and unlocks the door.

“Get out,” he says. Grady scrambles out of the door almost immediately but Wes hesitates. He glances back in the window in the moment before he closes the door and thinks he sees something like approval in Tripoli’s gaze. Or he’s imagining it. Doesn’t matter. The car drives away immediately after he closes the door, leaving him standing in front of the garage with Grady.

He shoves his hands in his pockets and starts walking. Grady doesn’t follow. Instead, he kicks a can lying on the ground as hard as he can, twitching for a cigarette.

Wes walks along the side of the road, the pants of his jumpsuit gradually staining brown with dirt the further he goes. He wipes the sweat from his brow and scowls, feeling frustrated tears prick at his eyes. They’re really in too deep now, aren’t they? There is no going back, he knows it even as he still clings to the thought of getting out of this fucking town, running far away from here and never coming back. Grady killed somebody. They both did, in the eyes of the law. And there’s no way Tripoli will ever let him leave.

Balling his hands into fists he clenches his jaw, thinking bitterly that he has been robbed of the only thing he had for himself. That job was his one semblance of normalcy, where he felt accepted, even valued.

This whole thing feels inevitable, like he’s falling down a steep hill too fast to stop himself. Wes rubs furiously at his eyes with his sleeve, kicking at the dirt as he plods onward under the hot sun.

Finally, nearly an hour later, he makes it home, letting the door fall shut behind him as he slumps against it in exhaustion, choking back a sob. Wes sees his mother, passed out drunk in front of the television static, and is filled with a sudden and all-consuming rage. He storms into the kitchen and gathers up what bottles of alcohol are left in the house in a sheet, then marches out the back door and smashes them with a baseball bat until there’s nothing but a booze-stained sheet and lots of broken glass.

He heads back into the house, still on the warpath, and storms up to his room, slamming the door behind him before yelling in frustration, kicking the side of the bookshelf as hard as he can and nearly breaking his fucking foot in the process.

“Shit--!” 

Wes collapses onto the floor, cradling his foot, and finally lets go, crying near-hysterically into his knee.

He doesn’t know what to do.

He doesn’t know that there’s anything he can do.

All he knows is that he will never be able to leave this fucking place.


	8. Chapter Eight

Fargo, North Dakota, 1983

 

His lungs burning in protest, Wes vaults over the top of a closed dumpster. He barely stifles a pained whimper when his foot pounds against the concrete, still aching from the night before. The mark is up ahead; he’s a squirrely fuck, tricker than they’d anticipated. Wes wishes he hadn’t fucking ran. 

Where the fuck is Grady? He lost track of him a couple blocks back, after they had to slow to follow that stupid son of a bitch over a fence.

Wes is practically wheezing as he sprints after the mark; he’s not out of shape per se, but he sure as shit wasn’t expecting to have to run this much. It helps that he’s nearly twice the other man’s size, of course. If nothing else, he’s grateful to have inherited his old man’s size--his father was an ornery bastard on a good day and a fucking monster on a bad day but he was built like a brick shithouse. (All the better for beating the shit out of your kid, he supposes.)

This whole thing feels like a huge fucking mistake but he knows there’s no backing out of it, there never was. Tripoli won’t tolerate that shit. Maybe when they were just delivery boys they could have left someday, maybe then he would have let it slide, but now that they’ve killed for him there’s nothing to do but dig themselves in deeper.

In his mind’s eye he sees Grady a few nights ago, when he laid awake in bed next to him and turned to ask if they were bad people. His eyes had been wide and fearful then, like he already knew the answer. Like the way he used to close his eyes or hide when he was scared, as if the bad things would go away if he couldn’t see them anymore.

Wes finds that he isn’t sure anymore.

Because they were always going to be drawn to the life of a criminal; that was to be expected with how shitty their lives were, and after Tripoli found them it’s not like they had much of a choice, but he isn’t sure that having killed a man for money is something they can just...move past.

File it away under ‘teenage mistakes’.

He can’t picture himself, years from now, sitting on a porch somewhere with Grady joking about it, like “Hey, remember that time we committed murder?” He can’t picture himself on that porch at all anymore, if he’s being honest.

A part of him thinks he’ll be lucky to live past twenty.

 

It’s like they’re drowning, he thinks, like they’ve been sinking all their lives and only now that he’s got seaweed wrapped around his ankle is he noticing that his lungs are running out of air. Wes still doesn’t know what to do about the growing panic encircling him, doesn’t know that there’s anything he can do in the first place. He feels like he’s caught in a trap, like the walls are closing in and if he doesn’t do something and fast he and Grady are going to be stuck.

Rounding another corner, he breathes a sigh of relief when he sees the mark run into a dead end, turning to look at him with shifty eyes, darting between his pursuer and the exit. 

Wes puts a hand up, catching his breath, trying to communicate to this cornered animal of a man that he isn’t here to kill him. Fuck, he thinks, this might be more dangerous than he’d thought. 

He can see the gears turning, sees plainly the mark trying to decide if it’s worth trying to rush him, sees him going for something in his pocket and realizes he’s made a mistake in cornering him.

And then the asshole tries to rush him.

Grady braces himself against a wall, struggling to catch his breath. He feels like he’s going to be sick, nearly doubled over as he groans in exasperation. 

“Oh, come on….” He spits onto the ground, face red as he checks his pulse with two fingers, his breath slowly steadying. “God damn it.”

He doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing here. He’s not some fucking gangster, he can’t do this shit, wasn’t made to chase some stringy asshole through back alleys like this. Grady feels foolish. The back of his neck burns red with embarrassment at the thought of what a fucking idiot he was to think he could do this.

He’s fucked up and he knows it, has known it a long time now, but always feels that desperate anguish every time he’s reminded of just how depraved he really is, because this whole thing is beyond fucked, past the point of no return, but he can’t stop thinking about the moment he first pulled the trigger, pinned under the older man while they both fumbled for the gun. It had been an accident, he’s sure of it, but when he took that step and squeezed the trigger and watched the man die a part of him _liked_ it.

Grady knows he’s a sick fuck. Clearly he has to be.

But he panicked when the man pinned him, wanted to get the fuck out of there before he could be hurt because he knew from experience that nothing good comes from being at another’s mercy like that and he wasn’t about to let it fucking happen again, especially in front of Wes, he’d rather fucking die--

When he did it, he thinks as bile rises in his throat, he felt powerful like he never had before. Like he could change things, like he could protect himself and his best friend and that sick son of a bitch could never fucking touch him again.

Like he could stop it.

The sun beats down on him, hot and judging, and he feels suddenly very sweaty and very cold all at once, his head swimming as he slumps to the ground, swearing under his breath.

“No, fuckin’...fucking stay awake…” He weakly slaps himself in the face, head pricking at his eyes.

Grady feels like he’s a kid again, being humiliated for the enjoyment of the older kids in juvie before he learned to play up the ‘psycho’ angle--if he couldn’t be bigger than them, he could at least be a whole lot badder. Before he met Wes, and finally had someone in his corner for the first time in his life.

Wes. _Fuck._

He steadies himself against the wall again, slowly getting to his feet. There’s no fucking way he’s gonna black out while Wes is chasing the mark alone. He can’t do that to him, he won’t. And that’s when Grady hears it and his blood freezes.

Wes doesn’t speak out loud much, but he’d know his voice anywhere.

And he just cried out in pain.

Grady breathes heavily, practically hyperventilating before he swallows his panic and hurries in the direction the scream came from, struggling to keep upright as darkness bursts at the edges of his vision. He grabs the gun from his jacket, checks that it’s loaded, and fumbles with it as he gets ready to potentially shoot, cursing repeatedly. Now he really wants to cry but he’s not fucking going to because Wes is in trouble and he’ll be damned if he fails him twice by being a little bitch and getting them both killed.

Wes clutches at his stomach, feeling warm blood blossoming between his fingers, and sways on his feet before socking his attacker in the jaw with his free hand. Abandoning his attempt to stop the bleeding, he grabs him by the collar of his shirt and slams him against the wall, sending the other man’s switchblade clattering to the floor.

The mark knees him in the gun, nearly connecting with his stab wound, and he grunts as he doubles over in pain, finally collapsing to the ground as the dark crimson stain on his T-shirt slowly spreads.

He’s gonna fucking die here.

He’s gonna die for this stupid fucking job because he was dumb enough to get involved in the first place and his Mom isn’t gonna give a shit if she’s even sober long enough to realize he’s gone.

Wes whimpers on the ground, curling in on himself as he feels frustrated tears well up in his eyes.

He doesn’t wanna die.

A stupid, scared part of him wants to yell for his mother, even though she’s miles away and drunk out of her mind and has never, ever cared about him. Not enough to stop his father from beating the shit out of him when he was younger, and certainly not enough to be there for him now.

He thinks about the sorts of things she used to say, about hell and God and whatnot, and makes a mental tally of the things he’s done. He’s lied, he’s cheated, he’s stolen, he helped hide a body, he wanted--

Wes’ brain immediately shuts down on that train of thought as he watches the man who attacked him begin to freak out over what he did, pacing back and forth a few feet ahead of him instead of making any effort to help him. Can’t say he blames him, he’s just surprised he hasn’t ran already.

“Oh, fuck--” he sees the man’s mouth forming panicked words, like he’s just now realizing he stabbed a kid.

And then, over his shoulder, he sees Grady round the corner, staring at them both with wide, horrified eyes.

All Grady sees is red, from the moment he turns to see his best friend lying crumpled in a pool of his own blood on the ground. A little voice in the back of his mind is fucking screaming and he can’t lose him this can’t be fucking happening he can’t he can’t he can’t--

“Shit, dude I--” The mark turns around and notices him, placing his hands up in a placating gesture that Grady is certain he doesn’t mean. His hand trembles as he tightens his grip on the pistol, raising it as he tries not to hyperventilate.

Before the other man can say or do anything, Grady’s hand steadies and he shoots him through the throat, watching blankly as he clutches at his neck, the blood bubbling up between his fingers as he takes big, rattling gulps of air, sinking to his knees before planting onto the hard concrete.

He feels nothing. 

Except maybe Deja vu. (Cold, lots of cold, everywhere, and he can’t see anything--)

Grady lowers the gun slowly, his mind entirely empty, as if the winds of a storm were swirling around in his brain, filling it up with empty white nothingness and static. But then he hears Wes’ jacket scraping against the pavement as he props himself up on an elbow, whimpering painfully as he tries in vain to stop the bleeding, and it snaps him out of it as he scrambles to his friend’s side.

“Oh, no no no, fuck--” his hands hover uselessly as he panics, absentmindedly stroking the side of Wes’ face with his thumb before flinching as he feels him lean into the touch. 

“Hey, hey, Wes, look at me. Okay?” He speaks deliberately, trying to hold his friend’s head steady so he can focus. “Don’t close your fucking eyes, okay? Just look at me.”

His hands are shaking way too hard to sign properly so he doesn’t bother. Grady helps Wes to his feet, feeling like he’s going to be sick when he sees just how much blood is sticking his shirt to his abdomen. 

“You’re gonna be okay,” he says, knowing Wes obviously won’t hear him. “Fuck, I’m so sorry.”

They hobble their way out of the alley, Grady unable to take his eyes off Wes’ face for fear that he’ll pass out or worse when he’s not watching. He keeps whispering reassurances, more for his own sake than anything else.

“Fuck, you’re heavy--come on, man, stay with me here--” Wes doesn’t respond, his head rolling limply as he tries to remain conscious, and Grady wants to cry or throw up or bash that motherfucker’s head in for doing this to him. Finally making it out to the side of the road, he helps Wes sit against a wall, gently smacking the side of his face to get his attention. Wes blinks, eyes glazed over, and he could be sick.

_I’m gonna get help. Stay awake, okay?_

Wes nods slowly, grimacing with pain, and Grady hesitates a moment, staring at his face unabashedly. This could be it, he thinks. If he wanted to, if he was brave enough he could--

He’s not brave enough, he decides, and that’s okay because Wes isn’t gonna die in some fucking alley in Fargo. 

Wes is gonna pull through, god damn it, so he can go right back to being the fucking coward that he is. Grady kisses the top of Wes’ head, hoping he won’t remember it, and gets up, tears himself away so he can hurry to the side of the road.

He sees a car coming, starts waving his arms and yelling to get their attention--serial killers and rapists and such pick up hitchhikers, don’t they? This is a really dumb fucking idea and he knows it but it’s the only option they’ve got. Luckily, the car slows.

“Are you okay?” The driver, a rather forgettable looking man in his forties leans towards the open passenger window.

“Um, uh--uh--fuck, man, my friend and I got mugged, and he’s bleeding real bad and I need you to take us somewhere, please, he got hurt real bad--”

The man glances to where Wes is slumped against the wall, looking like he’s already lost consciousness.

“Oh, fuck, please, he’s gonna fucking die!” Grady is pleading, barely holding back hysterical tears, but he just needs this guy to fucking _listen._

“Get him in the back,” the man says, and he nods eagerly. 

“Thank you!” He runs over to Wes’ side, kneeling next to him for a second. He’s out cold. Grady presses his fingers against the side of his neck and lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding when he finds a pulse, faint but steady. 

“Come on, man, get up.” He grunts with the strain of helping Wes to his feet. Of course it had to be the fucking giant who loses consciousness, he thinks bitterly, struggling to get Wes’ dead weight into the back seat of the car before joining him back there, resting his friend’s head in his lap.

“We need to go out of Fargo, there’s a ranch--”

The man frowns at him in the rearview mirror.

“That kid looks pretty bad, shouldn’t he go to a hospital?”

Grady blanches, shaking his head furiously. Tripoli would fucking kill them.

“No hospital.”

He frowns, skeptical, and Grady feels for the grip of his pistol in his jacket, reminding himself that it’s there. With his other hand he absentmindedly strokes Wes’ hair, brushing his curls out of his face.

“I dunno, I think you two should go to a hospital.”

Grady scowls, frustrated, and draws his gun, making a point of cocking it as he levels it at the back of the man’s head.

“No. Fucking. Hospital.”


	9. Chapter Nine

Fargo, North Dakota, 1983

 

Grady rubs at his closed eyelids, stifling a low groan as his leg continues to twitch incessantly. He’s never been good at waiting; always buzzing with nervous energy, like there’s a hornet’s nest between his ears. And now...well, now’s no different. The thought of Wes lying in some room while Tripoli’s doctor tries to hold in his guts makes him feel like he could faint again. He feels unbearably hot and cold all at once, little pinpricks behind his eyes threatening to send him into hysterics with worry.

Wes is all he has and if he dies it’ll be his fault for dragging him into this fucking mess with him.

Feeling his lip start to tremble, he clenches his jaw so hard his teeth ache. There’s no fucking way he can get away with crying here so he needs to leave that pussy shit at the door because it’s not doing either of them any good for him to be losing it. He can’t let anybody see him slipping like this. Not here.

But his hands. They’re stained with Wes’ blood, starting to dry and flake, and he’s not sure he’ll ever be able to scrub it off.

“Fuck,” he croaks, voice ragged.

It’s been over an hour of waiting in that hard wooden chair in the hallway and he still can’t get what happened out of his head. Behind his eyes the man who stabbed Wes is clutching at the hole in his throat, his dark blood coming unbidden, blooming between his fingers as he tries desperately to hold it back. The thought of what he did makes him sick to think about, but.

But.

There’s a little thrill deep in his chest, like he could curl up in the moment when he pulled the trigger and live there forever. He could drown in the catharsis he felt taking that man’s life before he remembered that his best friend was bleeding out on the ground.

Grady clenches his fists, digging his fingernails into the blood-stained palms of his hands. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if Wes doesn’t pull through. He’s all he has in the world, all he cares to protect, and he’s terrified of being left alone in the darkness waiting for him once he’s out of high school. He knows that he himself is going nowhere good, there’s no denying that Tripoli won’t ever let them leave, but he’s not sure he can live with the prospect of going it alone.

He rubs his ear absentmindedly, the ringing slowly going away.

He feels…..well.

When they pulled up to the ranch Tripoli’s been using as a base of operations the past couple years he didn’t even get a chance to say anything before one of Tripoli’s men standing guard marched up and shot the driver in the fucking face. Couldn’t have anyone knowing where they were, sure, and everyone knows Charleson is a bit trigger-happy but _fuck_.

Somebody’s probably taking the guy’s car out to the middle of nowhere now, he thinks. Somewhere he won’t be found. Grady feels sick to his stomach at the thought. It’s his fault. If that guy had a wife, kids, people who cared about him, it’s his fault that he’s dead. 

Even still, with Wes being stitched up down the hall, he can’t find it in himself to care too much for some stranger. He knows what he’s done, knows whose deaths he can count himself responsible for, knows what he has to feel guilty for. The list just keeps fucking growing. 

“Hey. Kid.” He looks up to see Jergen, some weird Australian twenty-something who joined up with Tripoli a year after he and Wes did. He’s only a few years older than the two of them but the smug asshole acts like they’re fucking children. Annoying fucker, too.

“What, man?” Grady sighs heavily, not in the mood to deal with his shit right now.

Jergen grins toothily. “Aw, nah, nothing like that. Big man wants to see ya.”

His stomach lurches. “Shit.”

The Australian hisses through his teeth, grimacing far too smugly to be sincere. Grady hates him immensely.

“Shit indeed, my friend.”

“I’m not your friend.” Jergen nods slowly, eyebrows raised, and Grady sighs, getting up to follow him. Along the way he starts telling some stupid fucking story that Grady only catches bits and pieces of, his mind preoccupied with images of blood spilling from the dead man’s neck like a bursting dam holding back the sea.

When they reach the door to Tripoli’s office Jergen opens his mouth as if to say something, glancing at Grady with something that almost resembles concern before ultimately deciding against it and walking away.

He raises his hand to knock, chewing the inside of his mouth as he hesitates. Just as he’s about to knock, the door opens. Tripoli isn’t looking at him, too engrossed in a book on his desk as Carlyle rattles off figures next to him. Grady hovers awkwardly as the door closes behind him.

“Sit down,” Tripoli grunts, not looking up, and so he quickly takes a seat in the chair across from him, feeling smaller than he has in a while. It’s like the nightmares he used to have as a kid wherein he stood at the bottom of a great cliff, staring up as a wolf leered at him from the edge.

“Sir, I--”

“Dead.” His blood goes cold and it’s like there’s a swirling nothingness inside his head, like he’s stuck out in the cold with no sign of shelter for miles.

“H-huh?”

“Wes. He’s dead.” He doesn’t look up, even as Carlyle visibly hesitates behind him, plainly uncomfortable. Grady says nothing. There’s nothing to say. His best friend in the world is dead because he wasn’t quick enough to save him, because he wasn’t strong enough to protect him, because he was stupid enough to think it could end any other way when he basically signed Wes’ fucking death warrant the moment he agreed to do that first job.

He stares at his hands. The blood is drying, turning brown. He wants to rip his fucking skin off if it would get Wes’ blood off of him. Fuck. _Fuck._

“I told you not to kill the mark. Told you not to hitchhike. Now I have to deal with it.”

“I..” His voice trails off, hands shaking in spite of himself. He’s never gonna be clean again, not that he was anyways, and he can’t go back to that fucking house and that fucking school if Wes isn’t here and the darkness is closing in on him and there’s no escape. Stupid, stupid, he’s so fucking _stupid_ and now Wes is fucking dead and he’s stuck here without him and he doesn’t know what to do and--

The door creaks loudly behind him as it opens. Tripoli finally lifts his head, staring just above Grady’s shoulder, and so he turns around and nearly faints.

Wes.

He looks like shit, with blood-stained bandages wrapped around his abdomen, wearing only his torn up, dirt-covered jeans. There are dark circles around his eyes like bruises and he looks like death and Grady has never seen anything more beautiful in his fucking life.

“Wes,” he breathes, unable to keep himself from smiling so hard it hurts. If they weren’t here, in front of Tripoli and his men, he’d--fuck, he doesn’t know what he’d do, but he’s never been so happy to see him, never felt so relieved.

“This was a lesson,” says Tripoli, expression as unreadable as ever. “Learn it.”

Grady nods, getting up from his chair when he sees him go back to ignoring his presence. He’s floating on air, like Charlie in the Chocolate Factory, now that he’s seen his worst nightmare and had it ripped away. Wes is watching him, visibly pained, and Grady grabs his forearm to practically drag him out the door. He doesn’t stop or say anything until they’re out of the building, away from prying eyes. 

Finally, he turns to face him, breathing heavily, and notices Wes is shivering. 

_Aren’t you cold?_

_They had to cut my shirt off. Didn’t have any that fit me._

Grady shrugs off his jacket and offers it to Wes, who laughs incredulously.

_It’s too small._

_Just put it on, asshole._ Not waiting for any more protestations on Wes’ part, he walks up and reaches behind him, draping the jacket over his shoulders. Wes was right. It doesn’t really do much and he certainly can’t fit his arms in it but Grady sees the way his cheeks redden as he pulls the front of it closer and signs his thanks and so he counts it as a victory.

Grady can’t help but stare, his gaze softening before he gives in and hugs Wes tightly, burying his face in his collarbone. He hadn’t even realized he was trembling. He feels Wes’ large arms encircle him and it’s all he can do to keep from crying.

“I love you,” he says, knowing Wes can’t hear him, and watches his breath catch on the words and dissipate into the cold air.


	10. Chapter Ten

Minot, North Dakota, 1983

 

Wes stays out of school for almost two full weeks.

In that time he just lays around in his room, reading or staring at the wall, as he waits for his stab wound to heal. His mother doesn’t check on him once. He doesn’t hear from Grady either, which stings, but it’s to be expected.

By the time he’s confident in his ability to go about his day without anyone catching on to what happened he’s itching to get out of the house.

Outside, the sky is bright blue and all the battered, rundown homes in his neighborhood seem to glow yellow in the light, near-blinding in their intensity. For the first time in a while it occurs to Wes that his senior year really is nearing its end. It doesn’t feel real, never has, how quickly the years have passed since the fateful day he and Grady played catch in a field. 

They were so small then, he thinks.

They still thought they had a future.

He kicks a small rock down the sidewalk, hands shoved in the pockets of his threadbare jacket as he slowly ambles down the street. He’s late already and he knows it but can’t find it in himself to particularly care.

Wes grimaces as the dull ache of his wound spikes up for a second, pressing a hand against his side as he hisses through gritted teeth. Getting stabbed...this whole thing feels far more real and far more scary now than it did less than a month ago. He could have died. Nearly did. The thought scares him more than he’d like to admit, left him curled on his bed crying from both the pain and the fear for days after it happened. He still has Grady’s jacket balled up under his pillow.

He didn’t realize he’d forgotten it until he’d already left the house, but chose not to go back and get it.

Figured he could hold onto it a bit longer before he gives it back. Having it there was strangely comforting, clinging to the damn thing while he wallowed in his misery. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t miss Grady, that it didn’t sting that he never came to check up on him. But, well. It’s not like he ever really knows where he stands with his best friend.

At the end of the block he sees a familiar dark car with tinted windows idling and his veins turn to ice.

Oh, fuck.

Nothing Tripoli wants could possibly be good.

He freezes, slowly making to cross the street in the hopes that he somehow hasn’t been seen, but the car quickly backs up until it’s directly in front of him. The back window rolls down slowly as he remains transfixed to the spot, weak in the knees.

“Get in,” says Tripoli, and so he does.

Wes’ knees are drawn up awkwardly, his legs far too long for how far back the seat has been adjusted, which he is almost certain was intentional and thus knows better than to even try and say anything. No, this isn’t a time for him to talk, if it were they would have found him when he was with Grady instead.

Tripoli means for him to listen.

“You understand why you don’t have a job anymore?”

His brow furrows with confusion as he tries to follow what the boss is saying and nods hesitantly. Tripoli scoffs, looking almost amused.

“You’re smart. Big. We aren’t losing you. Understand?”

He doesn’t respond.

“Grady’s not so smart. Not so big. Expendable.”

Oh.

He understands now.

This is a threat.

Wes nods grimly, his jaw clenched, and Tripoli nods back before turning away to look straight ahead. He says nothing else the rest of the car ride and Wes is dropped off in front of the school. He walks faster into that building than he ever has in his life, hands shoved in his pockets as he looks over his shoulder several more times.

The day passes slow and tedious and he finds himself glancing at the clock far more frequently than normal, feeling Grady’s absence gnawing at his nerves as he keeps finding his seat empty again and again as the day goes on.

And then, at lunch, he finally sees him. Wes looks around the crowded cafeteria until he is waved over by Amy and her friends. She tries to talk to him but he can’t help but keep on scanning the room, searching for some sign of Grady.

He finds it when he sees his best friend shoved to the ground, where he sits stunned for a moment as the asshole who pushed him is saying something Wes can’t make out, the wild look in his eyes as he glares up at his attacker before launching himself at him. Wes moves without thinking, without needing to think; Pavlov’s dog at the ring of a damned bell, he’ll say to himself later, and hate the impulse almost as much as he is grateful for it. 

Grady is sitting on the other guy’s chest, pounding him in the face, his lip split and gushing red and his dark eyes with the same cold wildness of a shark that’s smelled blood. Wes finds himself afraid for a moment, finds himself back in a stranger’s house with his best friend on the floor in a pool of someone else’s blood, and it occurs to him for not the first time that their lives seem to be hurtling along to some inevitable, most likely unpleasant conclusion.

More desperate than he means to be, he grabs Grady’s arm and hauls him to his feet, dragging him back and turning him around, putting himself between the two. Grady is shouting at him, too angry to remember to sign, and Wes is too focused on trying to read his lips to notice the asshole who started the fight getting up behind him until he feels a fist slam into the back of his head and stars burst in his eyes. 

He whirls and throws a punch, stunned as he is, but it doesn’t matter because Grady is on him already, looking like he’d like to claw the fucker’s eyes out, and it’s a lot harder this time to get them both away from the guy, weakly dragging Grady out of there even as his friend struggles to get back and finish it.

Wes pushes him into the bathroom, rubbing at the back of his head with a pained grimace, which defuses Grady. 

_Shit, are you okay, man?_ His hands are shaking a little but he doesn’t seem to notice. Wes doesn’t tell him.

_What the hell were you thinking?_

He regrets it immediately when the concern in Grady’s expression fades quickly to bitterness.

Grady rolls his eyes, glowering as he shoves his bruised hands in his pockets.

_You’re bleeding._

He shrugs like it’s nothing as much as the wound clearly pains him, and Wes feels at once a wave of fondness and irritation wash over him. Longsuffering, he pulls a handful of paper towels out of the dispenser and beckons Grady over to the sink. Grady obliges, however grudgingly, avoiding meeting Wes’ eyes as he turns the sink on and dampens the paper towels.

Wes dabs at the gash in Grady’s lower lip, wincing sympathetically when his friend hisses through clenched teeth.

“Sorry,” he mouths, hands too occupied to sign, and Grady nods absently.

Grady watches him in silence a moment, secure in knowing that Wes is too focused on the task at hand to notice. “I did it for you,” he says aloud.

Wes frowns. _What?_

_He was saying shit about you._

_You still shouldn’t have done that._

He rolls his eyes again.

_Grady, seriously._

_So fucking what? It’s nothing new._

_You have to be more careful._

Grady scowls, an ugly darkness to his expression as he flushes red and looks away. “Since when does it fucking matter?”

_Hold still._

He obeys.

Wes cups the side of his face in his hand to hold him steady and Grady goes rigid, looking rather like he’s about to be sick.

_Are you okay?_

Grady nods weakly. “ ‘s nothing.”

“Sure,” Wes murmurs under his breath, and sets back to work.

Grady finds himself leaning into the touch in spite of himself, the weight of the past few weeks hanging around his neck like an anchor. He finds that there’s a lot he’d like to say if he could work up the nerve, feels that familiar restless itch to tell somebody, anybody--

He wraps his hand around Wes’, moving it to lower the paper towel, and finds himself kissing him--almost unconsciously, his mind empty for a long and silent moment before he pulls back, feeling some small satisfaction at seeing his own blood smeared on Wes’ lips as his best friend stares back at him, wide-eyed.

Neither says anything for a long time, before Grady loses his nerve again, face turning red, and bitterly leaves Wes where he stands in the empty bathroom, gingerly touching at the blood on his lips.


End file.
